“It’s a Studebaker Sky
Hawk.”
My answer sucked the
air out of the room. My intention was to enlighten. But I had not answered the
question.
The question was “Is
this an exotic, fantasy or foreign?”
The ‘this’ in question
is a three-inch-long replica auto, with an aluminum body, plastic wheels and
computer guts going on inside. It’s a small, programmable, toy car, identical
under the body shell to the some two hundred other such cars found here, parked
inside automated rotating trays in three illuminated glass display cases.
They’re all the rage. You
can buy them cities to rove around in. Or they will just drive around on your
floor, making turns and sounding their horns, as if some commuter mouse man was
attempting to navigate his way to work through your kitchen. Depending on what
they “are”—and they are all the same inside—they retail for between $47.95 and
$265.95.
The Sky Hawk is
currently parked in the palm of a black suit clad thirty-something, here fresh
from some office job himself.
I haven’t helped. I
should go back to my dusting. The
miniature car dealer behind the display case is a full-sized woman-sized woman.
Right now I know her expression without looking at it. I have Biblical
knowledge of this woman. Satisfied that the thirty-something is a non-buyer,
she lights palms to the toy’s fore and aft and lifts to withdraw it. (Analogous
to the method in which she ended my biblical study of her, and for the same
reason.) He’s already bought two cars. I haven’t killed the mojo entirely.
There are other buyers present.
Dust, you nitwit. I
have done something bad here. Our suit was probably out to buy three cars. The
Sky Hawk caught his eye. He issued a multiple guess test, based on some
factoring of preferences for useless crap. Answer one of the three options and
there’s a chance of being helpful in the sale. Make something up and POOF. I
have a stupid mouth. Dust the Hummel figures. Dust the Precious Moments. Dust
the discounted Magic the Gathering Cards. Dust the pile of Beanie Babies taken
in trade many, many moons ago. Dust the tin packaged nostalgic candy
assortments.
Dust and clean it good,
because I am here at the car dealer’s sufferance, because without all these
little useless things, Conclave Noir falls down. Once I am through, I move to
the rest of the shop, the majority of the floorspace, the uneven isles filled
with larger objects. The collection is an idiosyncratic menagerie of twisted
neon, pottery with vague animal outlines, motorized windchimes, painted
fantastic plastic portions of the mundane.
Once labeled as art or sculpture
or miniature installations or unique decorative accents, they are what Conclave
Noir Artistic Studio Curios was created to purvey and promote. Having filled
all the space possible on the floor of this pie slice shaped storefront and
splayed themselves on windows facing two busy streets, they have remained here,
gathering dust and no interest from decorators, art critics or any manner of
human. Like the Beanie Babies there are no price tags on them, the tags having
long ago been removed with previous cleanings.
I hold off on the
vacuum. Sally seems to have moved it. And Sally still has customers. A balding
fifty something is haggling. He’s buying a city. Or he’s ordering it. And he
would like one of the little car charging stations in the form of a garage
thrown in with the rest of his microscopic municipality. My thinking is that
he’s more interested in talking to Sally than he is in making a deal. It’s not
beyond reckoning that Sally is his taste in women or that he is attracted to
women who might share his interests.
Sadly, none of Sally’s actual interests are on display.
I don’t know if he
chatted her up or talked her down. My own concentration was broken by an
utterance from behind the wall to wall giant bookless bookcases behind Sally.
“Tell Nadia it’s the conductor.”
I’m not the only person
who heard that. One of the other shoppers immediately looked at me. I wasn’t in
full uniform, but the patent leather Red Wings and navy slacks with yellow pinstripe
is disclosing. I have no shame in what I
do, as I have no shame in dusting.
I was about to dust the
clock thing. The clock thing, a box made from stained glass with an animation
cell for a face and wispy cat silhouettes dancing stenciled on its interior, is
my personal contribution to the collection of economic still-life’s on the
window. I was proud of it at the time. But it has not sold and it does not keep
time.
The last of Sally’s
customers has his receipt tucked into his bag and leaves, parting into the
night with a boyish smile. At that moment I am feeling disgusted with myself,
with my planned venture. It is bad enough that I am in Sally’s space. And I am
not here to see her. I am here to see Nadia. And I am not here to see Nadia. I
am here to brag through Nadia, to politick through her. I should be ashamed of
myself. I am this low.
“I think they know
you’re here,” Sally says without looking up from the rotating garage of cars
she’s neatening
“I’m sorry about that,”
I said. “Please don’t jam a Beanie Baby down my throat and make me poop it
out.”
“At last, a use for
Beanie Babies,” she says. “What are you sorry about?”
“The car thing. I
should have just shut up.”
“Now I know what the
thing is. It wasn’t on their website. They’re recycling stock numbers.”
“You getting these
things on spec?”
“Nooo. Historicals are
a bridge too far, too. The distributor must have slipped up or slipped it in. Dovetails
too close to die cast. I’m not going there.-- I think this whole thing is about
to Beanie Baby on me.”
“Any new ideas?”
“More candy. Liquor
candy. Candy in boxes. Candy that doesn’t require refrigeration.”
The door in the middle
of the bookcases opens. Nadia appears. And Sally shuts up.
Sally becomes a
still-life, her thin brown pantsuit bent forward over the case, her bowl of
yellow hair fencing off her eyes. Nadia takes center stage. Does Nadia glow?
She is a bundle of earth tones in a long wool jacket, a white muffler stuffed
around her shirt, a jaunty beret nearly slipping left off her head. She is a
mass of long brown hair and big brown eyes and full red cheeks and a broad
brown haloed smile.
“Sorry. So Sorry,” she
says. “Did I keep you waiting?”
A little over an hour
and fifteen minutes. But what is time?
I think I’m smiling
back. She doesn’t wait for my answer. She doesn’t seem to acknowledge that I
have an answer. She twitters on “There’s been a thing. You heard? I don’t think
we are going to have much time.”
Nadia makes a
determined sway for the door. I take this as my cue to open the door for her. We
are outside in the pre-Halloween night air, tinges of the nastiness about to
sweep Chicago any day swirling about us.
“You heard the
podcast,” she says, the matter of fact tone smothering whether it is a question
or a statement. “This changes things.”
The two tickets for the
art movie I don’t want to see cost $45. If we leave right now, we will be on
time. Nadia is not moving. Am I slow on picking up some hidden context here? If
‘podcast’ is the clue, I am drawing a blank. I look about. No evident zombie apocalypse.
No Gamera landing.
Out of the Conclave’s
door is Jerry, tall, imperial and thin. He should have his fist forever jammed defiantly
in the air. His black stringy fuzz face in grim mode, he pronounces “The entire
community needs to be alerted to this.”
He is then joined by
Thing One and Thing Two, a pair of male trust-fund babies in Northern Face
outerwear. They are not quite as tall nor quite as fuzzy as Jerry, but they are
in the same idiom. Don and Stu and Jerry are the Conclave’s members currently.
For the moment, outsized egos are allowing for close proximity. Something is
up. They’ve summoned Stu, the one that owns a car.
Stu locks eyes with me.
“Pancake house. You take Nadia.”
How magnanimous of him.
I had other plans: for myself, for Nadia, for this night.
The glass blowing
bender of neon tubes, the potter and the painter turn as one and trudge away in
the direction of the car some realtor gave his third born spawn.
I am on my best
behavior. I am not sure what my tone of voice is. “Nadia, this had better be
good.”
“It’s not. It’s a
disaster,” Nadia says.
In moments, we part. I
veer off the sidewalk into the street. Nadia stays on the sidewalk and keeps
going, maybe five steps before realizing I have left.
She turns as I am
opening the driver’s door. “New car?”
she asks.
And it is new, too. The
passenger door pops open. I enter. She hesitates for a moment, her eyes
sweeping the car’s midnight exterior. Whether it’s courtesy or curiosity driving,
I don’t know. Then she slides in over the black leather seats. “What is it?”
“It’s a Lincoln
Continental.”
“Smells nice. Seems in
good shape.”
“It should. It has 210
miles on it.”
“Payments?”
“I paid cash.”
She appraises me with
new eyes, but it is not the calculous I have conceived. She must think the
Union Pacific pays more than it does, or that I am miserly frugal when not in
her presence. In any case, I have entered the realm of sell-out. It is on that
continuum I will now be judged.
The car is here to help
me pitch my case through Nadia. Nadia is not biting. End of conversation about
my fifty-five thousand dollar brand new car. Instead conversation takes an
immediate turn to directions to a restaurant that I can find blindfolded in my
sleep.
As for the impending
disaster, it is the restaurant. No, not Golden Waffle. Golden Waffle is perfect.
It’s a perfect place for the dreamers to spool waffles and sip bottomless
coffees. Conclave Noir used to have its own set table, dating back to a time
when we could smoke there. And its almost the same assortment of folks
congregating there as Nadia and I arrive, some a bit longer in the face. No,
the restaurant is ‘the restaurant’ as in a place in Willowbrook, the site of
Conclave Noir’s signature achievement. From the sign to the awning to the neon
torches on the walls to the mural painted on the bar’s wall, it is the singular
showpiece of Conclave Noir’s house style in comprehensive flourish. As a
venture, this French Sea-Food purveyor lasted about eight months. It has been
shuttered for five years now. The disaster is that the space is about to be
filled by an operator who does not want any of the work Conclave Noir installed
and is ready to scrape the place clean of it.
Given that Conclave
Noir was never given another commission of this scale, perhaps this is for the
best. The idea of having a single house style running across several mediums is
itself out of fashion. It was not well accepted, at least in Willowbrook. Time
has passed. No one will note the destruction of this collection of works. If
anything, it cleans the slate of reflecting negative impressions evoked in
Conclave Noir’s direction. This is the truth. The consensus at Golden Waffle is
180 degrees from what I have stated. There is talk of protests, of physically
blocking the demolition crew. Cooler heads prevail. There is talk of contacting
the landlord and the new tenant, of seeing if something can be arranged.
Since it involves
contacting real businessmen, or any function other than social networking, I am
sure that nothing will come of it. I
feel no risk in offering whatever assistance the team may require.
I am an idiot. Two
weeks later I am sitting on a ladder in a darkened alcove in Willowbrook,
scraping stucco off a wall. Nadia is
beside me, doing the same. Other Conclave members and adjuncts and family are
toiling about, putting down a primer coat, ripping up carpet, sweeping and
hauling. The triad of Jerry, Stu and Don are wrapping the dismembered
chandelier, awning and light torches in newspaper. The new renter has allowed
Conclave Noir the use of a cloak room to store its artifacts, for as long as
the cloak room continues to exist. The overall deal is that we are free to take
our things with us, as long as bare walls and floors are left behind. And all
its costing us is paint.
Luckily, the restaurant
chain is not in that big of a hurry. We are told that we have three months.
This turns out to not exactly be the case. The sign was bulldozed down before
we started. And the interior demolition crew is beholding to none. While Nadia
and I are painting and scraping, a demo crew is removing one kitchen and
installing another.
I was not asked to chip
in for the paint. I think there was some sort of Go Fund Me for that. All I am
out are some precious vacation days, all taken to meet the schedules of a
critical mass of people, most of whom do not work. We wind up running way
behind schedule, missing benchmarks, skirting deadlines.
I would be annoyed,
concerned, aggravated—especially on those occasions when only Nadia and I show
up. Or when the triad membership does
nothing except appraise what is already in the cloak room. But I am not anything but overjoyed, because
these are dawn to dawn days spent with Nadia. I am her rebound boyfriend. If
you can be the rebound boyfriend, by all means do so. It is two day doses,
serial uncorking, wave after wave. Spaced out over intervals of weeks, it is
exotic, thrilling, the essence of invigorating. In short, at what time the
project went sideways is beyond my comprehension. Nadia and I were lost in our
own world, painting away, happy as a pair of bugs.
I did make my pitch,
partially through Nadia, partially through the occasional presence of my new
Lincoln, partially in those instances when the Conclave members remembered that
they were supposed to be friends of mine. I will make it short. Some time ago I began
composing puzzle books, crosswords, word finds and the like, all woven around a
single story. Each puzzle built on an element of the story and the solution to
all of the puzzles led to the surprise ending. The books were in themes, one
for Christmas and one for Halloween. I
composed them on my computer. I did the art for the pages. I had the books
printed in China and distributed to dollar stores through wholesalers on Lawrence
Avenue. They sold so well that I was offered a tidy sum for the rights to what
I had produced and a contract to produce an open number of additional editions.
It may not be enough to quit the Union
Pacific for, but it is where the new Lincoln Continental came from. My editor
suggested doing a detective type theme, somewhere muttering the word ‘Noir’ and
I immediately thought of my pals at Conclave.
“Screw them. Do it
yourself,” is what both Nadia and Sally told me. Both of them were given my
most persuasive version of the pitch, too. My conscious intention is to somehow
share my success with Conclave Noir. Sub-consciously perhaps my aim is to gain
admittance to cool kids club, to be deemed something of a peer. The reality is
that my publisher has an art department, and a fine one at that. Conclave Noir
would have to come up with something spectacular in order for me to justify
messing with the publisher’s in-house crew. Regardless, I pressed on, never
clear of how much of the lip service Conclave Noir spouted translated to actual
enthusiasm.
Three months in,
Conclave Noir seemed to have lost all enthusiasm for salvaging their
masterpiece. All of the components of the glass mosaic awning and other items
were now crammed within the cloak room, but the white washing of walls was
still missing in parts. There were holes in walls and swaths of carpet squares
remaining. No one other than Nadia and myself had shown this time or the last.
Although the demolition crew claimed we had left the area as good as could be
expected, it was not at all what we had promised the tenant. I was now out of
vacation days. Nadia was despondent over how much still needed to be done, how
big of a mess we were leaving behind.
We could only do what
we could do. After aiding in the field testing of the newly installed cascade
of fudge with our tongues, we trudged off to destroy the one work which could
not be removed. It was Nadia’s mural, silhouettes of Chicago Blues and Jazz
greats, outlined in neon, each interior covered in notes from their most
popular works. All of it was against a pointed trapezoid sunburst in the
outline of Chicago’s skyline. This was the main wall of the bar. It was unclear
if it was ever used as a performance space.
Nadia was a trooper.
She put a roller to it without hesitation.
“A lot of murals get
covered. You never know, maybe the next owner will uncover it. Chances are it
will be restored,” I said.
The words had just left
my face when a member of the demo crew came in and sprayed a dayglow ‘x’ over our
whitewash. He explained “That wall’s coming down.”
Later we watched the
chain buffet’s sign light up for the first time, took ourselves a hearty last
swig of fudge from the cascade and trudged our paint spattered selves back to
my Lincoln.
“My place, tonight?”
she said.
“But we’ve already
broken all of my furniture,” I replied.
Despite my tone, I had a feeling we were entering the coda of this
opera, the dead cat bounce.
I didn’t know it at the
time, but Nadia had moved back in with her folks. She had an apartment above
their garage with its own entrance, all of which seemed new. It was nice, if a
bit small. I sensed some sort of compromise agreement in the environment.
We showered and settled
down for a night of cuddling. At various points my eyes searched the room.
Where were her sketchbooks? Where were the color swaths? Where was the screen
press? No smell of inks. In pride of place was a laptop, a Toughbook. A
bookshelf held grad school catalogs and primers on taking the LSAT.
Nadia was not the first
woman I had escorted out of our world. First you do the conductor, then you get
off the art train.
I called Nadia the next
week, but she was out of town. The week after, she was studying. Then it was
first year of law school and you know how that goes. Poof!
Good for her. Get your
own damn Lincoln Continental. She needs me for nothing.
As vacation days spent
went, it was better than any all-inclusive journey I had ever been on. I
thought about it every time I accrued another vacation day. My offer to the
Conclave remained in the ethers and my life went on.
There’s this disheveled
man who rides my current line, from Clybourne to Arlington Park and back. Webs
of dirt run over his too tan face. His body is shrink wrapped in brittle sweat-clinging
rags. Every day he shuttles six duct tapped large cardboard boxes in and out
with him. The boxes are heavy, filled with something akin to paper. Without
fail, people help him load the boxes in and take the boxes off. We help him. It’s a speed drill sociology
experiment, taking serial advantage of the kindness of strangers.
I have seen him each weekday
for a year and a half, but have never spoken to him. He stinks and has wild,
staring eyes. No one so far has talked to him. We get a lot of people on this
line. While people are willing to haul and help him, no one lingers to
converse. At length I became convinced that this was the way he wants it.
We had just completed
his return stop. It was pouring. A pom pom girl and a stock broker both took up
boxes. We had done all we could to get him close to an awning, but he had
chosen the wrong car. So we rush to get his hoard out and then he just stands
there, no mind to the rain, no urgency whatsoever as he’s pelted on the
platform.
The door closed and I’m
mopping my face. My phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer.
“Did you hear the
podcast? All hands on deck. This is urgent.”
“Is this Thing One or Thing Two?” I asked.
“It’s Don.”
“Thing Two, I don’t get
podcasts. I don’t get email. I work on a
train.”
“Is the conductor
coming?” someone on the phone asks.
“Do you have Nadia’s
number?” Don asks.
“No Nadia. Nadia is in
Law School,” I said. “Is Sally kicking you out?”
“The restaurant.
They’re going to throw everything away. We have to get there tonight.”
It’s been months. Did
they have to wait until the April deluge, the dead of night?
I show and I am a
sweetheart. We had to pull the stuff out of drywall wreckage. The only cross
words came from the demolition guys, who had started removing the cloak room
only to discover it filled with glass and neon shards.
All of the careful
newspaper wrapping melts in the rain, the ink on the various asset tags runs
off. By the time it is loaded into the U-Haul truck Stu rented, it is no longer
a carefully curated collection of bits for reassembly (God knows where), but
rather a lapidary of brittle masts and their equally sharp kittens. Stu then
drives too fast. The load shifts. What
will it be when it gets where it is going?
Had I known the
destination, I would not have showed up.
We were set to meet at
Conclave Noir. Sally had the shop’s door open for us and was generally pleasant
as Jerry and I stood shivering, dripping all over her carpet. If Jerry were
about to spring something, he didn’t display any hint. Time was not on my side
and I was wondering where we would be unloading our treasure from the
restaurant.
Then the U-Haul showed
up in the alley behind the shop. Without a word of notification, Thing One and
Thing Two started carting things in through the back door, leaving a trail of
glass bits all the way. They were heading up the landing, putting torches and
armatures on the stairs leading up, in the hallway, crowding the door to the second-floor
apartment. Jerry soon joined in, wedging a section of awning into the hall.
I didn’t know what to
say. I had no idea what they were thinking. One of the doors they were blocking
was the fire exit for the shop next door. People unaffiliated with the Conclave
lived on the third floor. Sally’s apartment was on the second floor, but the
Conclave had no claim to that either.
Stu then suggested that
Sally head to the basement storeroom, to see if she could make more room. As I
head down with Sally, I hear Stu open the door to her flat.
The basement is where
Sally runs the mail order part of her business. It’s where she keeps her
packing materials and excess stock. In neat rows on a table in the corner is
where she keeps her dreams. Sally is a quilter. Not a tapestry artist, which is
where quilting has been heading, but a historical quilter. She has been saving
quilt-capable scraps of used fabric for years, each individual piece cut into
eight inch squares. She has thousands of them, no two alike. Moreover, she has
a business plan with a price point, $350 wholesale $600 retail. Anything less
and it’s not worth doing, anything more and you’re pricing the consumer out.
Artesian or not, it is bedding. She has the complete fixings to whip up three
quilts right now, but she can’t because there is no place to display them,
because the Conclave Noir crap never moves. And now more of it is coming,
marching like fire ants over the common areas of her dwelling, up and down her
stairs, into her cellar, into her home.
Sally loves these
people. She’s very tolerant of them, almost to the point of disbelieving in
their evident inconsideration. Sally is very bright and she does have a spine,
but there is a delay in reaction, stimuli having to overcome a peaceful and
loving nature.
How dare they. Even for
an hour. Even for a day. Knowing the Conclave I fear that this is the final
place for this stuff, that this crap will congeal in piles, never to move
again, another imposition for Sally to navigate through. She may say something
eventually. Inevitably she does have a breaking point.
The only harsh words
I’ve ever heard Sally utter were directed at me. I deserved them. I broke her
trust, squandered my standing with her. It is not my place to step in here. If
I speak I face an immediate and well-earned blast of venom, a fast exit from any
further interaction with her. I chance it. I turned to her, looked her in the
eyes and said “This isn’t happening. I’ll take care of it.”
Maybe she’s stunned,
but she doesn’t say anything. I might very well be off my mark here. I was
willing to chance it.
In a blink I am at the
base of the stairs, calling up. My mouth is moving. I had no idea what I was
going to say. “Hey guys, I was thinking. I have some warehouse space we could
use.”
The puzzle books
required staging. The Arab wholesalers on Lawrence Avenue will say yes to
anything, but they will only part with cash when they see a physical product.
Once the books arrived from China, I had to get warehouse space for them. As
sales proved the books, they walked off soon enough. But the shortest lease I
could get was eighteen months. I had been making a little extra cash subletting
it on an ad hoc basis to a food packager. But it was empty at that moment.
I had made quite a bit
of money subletting it. This wasn’t without sacrifice. The moment I made Conclave
the offer, I knew it would be utterly thankless.
It got the crap out of
Sally’s hair. And it earned me a cut which required stitches and a tetanus
shot.
Due to logistics and
the nature of the crap involved, it took us several hours to scoop it entirely
out of Sally’s store and into its new home, two stories up and five left turns
down an emergency-lighting-only warehouse. No tools. No carts. No gloves. We
are carting mostly broken glass. And it’s raining. Many obvious things happen.
Thing One and Thing Two are oblivious almost to the point of playing in puddles
dawdling. I have to be presentable and on a train at the crack of dawn.
I make it. I had to
shower at the station and I am paranoid enough to have a cleaned and pressed
uniform in my locker there. At 4:38 AM I am on a train, the world moving
beneath my feet. I haven’t slept, but I am where I need to be. I have not
failed Union Pacific. I am on my feet for the next ten hours.
Don’t ask me what
happened the rest of the day. I didn’t eat, either—unless you count a mountain
spring of Mountain Dew. I made it back to my place and collapsed.
The phone rang. It was
somewhere in the cushions near my head. I rose, digging my hands into the couch
around me. It was one of the assigned ring tones. I feared it was work. Did I
fail to turn in the ticket record? Did I mess up the cash drop? Dread and
frenzy seized me.
It was Sally. No
relent. Here comes. Here’s where she chews me out for the final time.
“Are you still asleep?
Did I call too soon?” she asked.
I am not reading
anything in her tone of voice. I am not awake. But I lie. “Everything’s good
here. Everything good by you?”
“I owe you, Mr.
Marshland.”
Still not capable of
fathoming anything. I go with “Oh. I hope it all wound up ok.”
“You know, I spotted a
new sewing machine. Especially designed for quilting.”
“That would be good.”
She’s going to sew me to a cross and then kill me.
“It’s used. I guess it
was her daughter’s. She won’t ship it to me because she can’t lift it.”
“I’ll get a truck.”
“You will?”
“And a hand truck and
packaging stuff.”
“It’s in Paducah.”
“The sewing machine is
in Paducah.” I am now half awake. Look, I made a sentence. “Paducah is in
Kentucky, unless someone has moved it.”
“Lot of cool things in
Paducah.”
“I’ll believe you.”
“Monday good?”
“Monday is my day off.”
“Monday still your day
off?”
“Yes it is.”
“Good. See you then.”
As revenge murder plots
went, it seemed a little convoluted. That dawned on me when I finally got up
later.
I have destroyed a few
relationships. Most of them I have left festering, gurgling, spewing lava tar
or lashing out pseudopods. Once I’ve broken them, I am at a loss for a method
of repair. I’ve heard the words ‘penance’, ‘forgiveness’, ‘grace of God’ but I
disbelieve.
What I do believe in is
showing up where I’ve promised to, even half awake. Paducah was fine. She
didn’t kill me. To be honest, the sewing machine did not require a truck,
although it would have been difficult for Sally to maneuver alone. We made a
day of it. We toured the Quilting Museum there. We had dinner at a place where
they throw rolls at you. As outings went, it went fine.
I’m not sure what I was
doing right, but I kept doing it. One outing led to another. We went to the
candy show. We went to a store fixtures auction. It became the outing that has
never ended. There’s a rhythm, there’s music to it. Two worlds in orbit around
each other, keeping our own time. The music keeps playing and we keep dancing.
If I did not notice the
many urgent events involving Conclave Noir, I have no excuse. I was in its
midst on a daily basis, seeing all of their faces more than I ever have before.
To me, it seemed as if the whole artsy commune thing was melting away. Even
trust funders have court dates and alimony payments and growing children and aging
parents and there’s only so much playing at the rest of the filigree of life
that even the dedicated adrift can do. More of the Conclave’s stuff moved to
the warehouse, based on the notion that warehouse shows were where it was at. I
am not sure there ever was a show. Maybe I had become so ubiquitous that they
didn’t think to invite me—or more probably assumed I was preoccupied. As the
Conclave’s stuff receded, Sally filled the seceded space, first with frames for
displaying quilts. The quilts sold like bakery items. Three could be made a
week. Two could be displayed at a time. When displayed in pairs, they lasted
hours on the sales floor. We began spacing their appearances out. At one point
Conclave Noir decided to call itself something else, leaving the name to Sally
and her store. The increased foot traffic in the store seemed to discourage the
artists so much that they all started hosting these events at restaurants where
they taught people the distinction between vapid and insipid. I think it was
painting classes, honestly. Painting classes where people eat and then paint
while the artist-facilitators float about garden sprinkling advice on how to
live off your parents forever. Had no one mentioned anything I would have
forgotten about the proposal I had made to Conclave Noir.
“Puzzle book project.
We have a verdict,” Thing One informed me. He was just back from teaching a
high tea how to play with acrylic mud. Perhaps my description is somewhat off base.
They have been going to restaurants and they are carrying less and less stuff
with them. And they’re all gaining
weight and the stray Asian girlfriend.
Whatever they were up
to they needed some me time alone in the store to podcast socially promote
drink bong water estimate belly button lint. Sally had insisted that this time
be granted. I opened the door for her and it was again nearly November out.
Down came the rain.
Where did the year go? As opposed to bolting from me, Sally turns and makes
mincing backwards steps. At that pace, we will go nowhere at all. She has her
head tilted up, her wild blue eyes tracing circles in the air, a broad smile
parting thin lips. I offer “Golden Waffle then?”
“Neef,” is her
response. It’s the sound the little cars make when they can’t get around
something. She doesn’t want to go anywhere. She wants to wait this out. Our
dialog lights to the subjects of calligraphy and floral place settings and matching
dresses equally repellant on women of disparate sizes and banquet hall food
options. In less than an hour we have a meeting on these subjects with some
professionally female rented navigator who promises to dream on budget.
The short awning above
Conclave Noir’s window isn’t protecting either of us. Neither of us are
melting, but I can fathom no need for getting watered. We are bathed in
photographic light cast from the podcast studio behind the bookless bookcases
on the other side of the glass. They have the shade down as Thing One
interviews Thing Two. Between the rain and the muffling of the glass and the
roll of cars passing, I can hear very little, although it sounds profound. Sally
transcends the irritants of our current circumstances, buzzing happy,
recounting reactions from showing off the ring I gave her. Her mood infects and
I am lost in time.
We did not notice the
podcast light go out. Thing One hails me from the shop’s door.
A fraction before
entering, Sally shoots a whisper from her perch under the awning ten feet away.
“Clifford.” My name. No discernable inflection. Only I heard the heel tone.
My standing orders for
life, as it should turn out.
I follow the second son
of the best real estate agent in all of Evanston through the swinging bookless
bookcase and up the stairs and into what had been Sally’s apartment until two
months ago. Now that we have the house in Lincolnwood, the renamed Conclave is
free to use this space for whatever it is they take up space for. At least
until the new sewing machine and mail order stuff show up.
Other than the stove
and fridge, there is very little in this apartment. The boys have taken up
seats behind school desks that Sally used as nightstands. We are all seated
upon vintage 1940s diner chairs dumpster dived from the Golden Waffle. It’s an
all-adult adult-free parent-teacher conference.
I mention the setting
only because I do not see any drawings or proposals for drawings. None of them
have a pad of paper on their desks. None of them have a pen, So I already have
my answer.
I am smiling. I am not
mentioning the fact that the owner of the warehouse has been leaving me
voicemails day and night about the people I vouched for assuming my lease. Or
that the only portion of his rant that I understood was the word ‘dumpster’.
Because I am counting on these suckwads and their plus ones to fill seats and
eat chicken kiev/chicken cordon blue come April in a hall I am about to dump
two grand on reserving. I am remaining silent, in as visibly happy of a way as
I can pretend.
“Cliff, as you know, our organization
is governed by strict bylaws,” Jerry begins. “We call them the three Ps.”
No. I wrote the bylaws.
It’s the three Rs. The three Ps are Pierce, Peerless and Packard. The three Rs
are renown, reputation and remuneration.
“The first of the Ps is
prestige,” Jerry explained. “Does it add to our collective reputation to have
our work appear in a crossword puzzle book?”
Ok, we’re paraphrasing.
Probably because they forgot the bylaws, only remembering that they had them in
reference to an excuse. I don’t know
where this is going. Right now their work appears in a warehouse, a closed
warehouse. Keep looking right at them. Keep smiling.
“Irregardless of that,”
Stu adds, using the ignoramus tense of regardless, “How many people would even
see our work in a puzzle book?”
The standard print run
is a quarter of a million. They make their living on forty percent sales. And
the stuff changes hands and lingers for months. In short, about ten times the
number of people who have seen your work so far. Please God let me look swayed
by this nonsense.
“Finally, pazoozas,”
Jerry says.
Pazoozas? I’ll admit
remuneration is obtuse, but at least it’s a word. I wanted to go with the three
Ms—moxie, mojo and money. Not that there’s ever been any money involved in this
clam bake, although I was offering some.
May God keep and love
these bozos. They never intended to treat my proposal seriously in the first
place. I’m only getting this much because I’m in orbit around Sally. And my
motives aren’t pure. I’ve spent the better part of a decade attempting to
insinuate myself into their little art club, This excuse was the only
creativity that I was likely to inspire from them.
To them, Noir is Art
Decco in the darker floral tones. It’s swaths of blacks and tilted ladies hats.
It’s moral ambiguity dressed as realism and relativism as religion. I think that
spits the bit, sees the trees for the forest. The seeming no-win choices, stark scenery and
motivational ambiguity are decorations, style imposed on what is straight up
classical tragedy. And in classical tragedy, your tragic flaw is your destiny.
Conclave Noir promotes
noir, claims to give it tribute, has quested for a venue in which to triumph
their take on the subject. Yet when they are offered a platform to do so, they
decline it.
We all get what we
deserve.
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